


Vellum and Morocco

by pindergast



Series: Side of the Angels [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: America, Case, Gen, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pindergast/pseuds/pindergast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have taken up a case in America to investigate an enigmatic serial killer. Amidst the baffling clues, suspects, and incomprehensible American customs, there is an underlying sense of familiarity with one of the witnesses---Second installment of the 'Side of the Angels'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”_

_-Winston Churchill_

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes snaked his way through the seemingly endless rows of luggage and suitcases, all being somewhat moderated by their owners. There were many instances in which his own bag was knocked to the floor by an ignorant passenger, causing both participants to glare at each other. After much careful maneuvering, he found his designated seat, and John Watson followed him.

“You would think—“ John tried to speak, but lost his balance as he tried to store their bags in the upper compartment, “You would think, that after all of this, your brother would have gotten us a better…” he motioned to the rest of the cramped plane, “…arrangement.”

“I agree that this is utterly proletarian, but it was last-minute.”

“First class would have been nice.”

“He’s punishing us—well, me.”

“I think he’s just happy that you agreed to all of this.”

“The fact that this was a nine was the only reason I did.”

John sighed. “Eight hours on a plane,” he drawled.

“And we land in America—hardly any consolation.”  

 

* * *

 

Sherlock thought back to the day before, when Mycroft told him about the case in America. It had been nearly a week after Sherlock came back from the dead, but that didn’t stop Mycroft. He called him in the morning after he texted his brother. Sherlock entered his office with obvious irritation.

“I’ve only been back for one week, and here you expect me to take on a case, just like that?”

“Oh, stop. I know that after a week of twiddling your thumbs—“

“And in America, of all places…you think that that’s going to incline me to go?”

“Don’t be so hasty. Why don’t you listen to what I have to say?”

Sherlock glared at his brother. He wasn’t in the mood to argue, so he sat in a chair opposite of Mycroft with no intention of listening.

“As you know, I have connections all over the world,” he began. Sherlock scoffed.

Ignoring him, Mycroft continued, “You don’t keep up with world news, do you?”

“I try to avoid it.”

“Sacramento, California…heard of it?”

“Sounds familiar. Mycroft, really, I _don’t care_.”

“The city has seen a recent increase in homicides. The police are nearly positive that it’s a serial killer.”

Sherlock perked up, but immediately turned his head, trying to appear indifferent.

“Sacramento is the capital of California, and the governor, Walter Hale, has asked for _your_ assistance.”

“What?”

“One of his dear friends was a victim of these crimes, and he wants to apprehend whoever is responsible.”

Sherlock pondered this. “Why me?”

Mycroft laughed, “Your indifference is amusing, Sherlock, but you must have noticed a change in the way the media treats you...and the public, at that. America has gotten word of the brilliant detective who faked his own suicide here in London. News spreads quickly.”

“So, the governor wants me to take the case…tell him I’m _flattered_ , but I’m busy,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

“Do you realize how important this is?” Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, “The _governor of California_ is asking for _your_ help. You really shouldn’t be hesitating.”

“I’m not hesitating…I’m refusing.”

“Is this because you don’t want to go to America?”

Sherlock paused, studying his brother’s incredulity, “I will admit, it’s not much motivation.”

Just then, the door behind them opened, and John entered. After closing it behind him, he looked at the scene, his brow furrowed.

“I got here as fast I could,” he sounded out of breath.

“There was no need to rush, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said casually.

John walked forward and stood behind Sherlock, “Sherlock—he said there was an emergency…”

“Yes. My brother is shipping me off to America.”

John grinned slightly, “What, really?”

“I’ve offered Sherlock a case in California—a serial killer—but he has refused,” Mycroft said, still looking at Sherlock. “I’m assuming you asked John to come to convince _me_ that you can’t go.”

“A trip to America?” John mused. “I’m in.”

“What?” Sherlock turned to face him. “Why?”

“Sounds like fun. Beside the fact that…you know,” he coughed, “…people have…died…”

“Don’t encourage Mycroft, John,” Sherlock said, “I’m not going.”

“Would you like some incentive?”

“I don’t need it, no.”

Mycroft pulled out a few files from his desk drawer and read them aloud.

“First victim, Ronald Griffin, 54, was killed one week ago. His body was found on the railroad tracks…stabbed 12 times.”

Sherlock nodded, “Are you trying to make this sound intriguing?”

“Second victim, Freda Cain, 79, was killed a few days ago. Found in her home with a horrendous wound in the back of the head.”

John cringed.

“Third victim—“

“How do they even know that these are serial killings?”

“Third victim,” Mycroft continued, ignoring him, “Allan Carr, 46. Found on the shore of the Sacramento River. Drowned…witnesses say that he was fishing.”

“Mycroft… _how do they know what these are_?”

His brother looked up from the papers. He then pulled out another stack of paper from his drawer and handed them to Sherlock. “These were found at each crime scene.”

Sherlock scanned the photos quickly and handed them to John. “Coincidence.”

John rifled through the photos, “Sherlock, these don’t look—“

“Coincidence,” he demanded.

“These were at three different scenes. They are, without a doubt, connected.”

Sherlock peered at the photos again. Each photo was of the victim’s hand, clutching a piece of paper.

“What was on the paper?”

“All of them were different. The man on the railroad’s said ‘42’. The old woman’s said ‘77’. The man in the river’s said ‘565’. They’re not sure how the numbers are connected.”

Sherlock nodded. He had to admit that it was strange. “Even if it’s a serial killer, the MOs don’t match.”

“And here’s, perhaps, the strangest part. Everyone who found the bodies noted that they remembered the distinct smell of leather at each scene. ‘Dusty and old’, some said. I should also note that all of the bodies were found not long after they were killed…any ideas?”

“Three.”

“Then what do say?”

Sherlock sighed. John slapped him on the back, “Come on. America isn’t _that_ bad. And this case sounds right up your alley.”

“Have you ever been to America?”

“…No.”

“Then you shouldn’t speak from experience.”

“Have you been there?”

“…No.”

“Then you shouldn’t speak from experience.”

After much negotiation, John and Mycroft convinced the reluctant Sherlock to take the case. They made arrangements to leave that night. Sherlock and John then went back to Baker Street to pack.

“I can’t believe we’re going…” Sherlock droned morosely.

“Try to be a little optimistic, will you? Maybe it’ll be fun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t hold too much hope.”

 

* * *

 

John looked out the window as the London skyline disappeared behind them. They didn’t know how long they would stay in California—it depended on how the case progressed. They planned on at least one week.

He saw Sherlock going over the case information that Mycroft had given him. Both of them wouldn’t admit that they had no idea what was going on. Sherlock didn’t have three theories. He was lucky to have one.

_This will certainly be blog-worthy._  


	2. Chapter 2

_“We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.”_

_-Walt Disney_

* * *

_Four hours. It’s only been four hours…_

Sherlock had never experienced such a monotonous experience, and it had only been four hours.

He seemed to be the only one who was still awake. The plane was void of all sound and movement—even John was fast asleep.

He pulled out the case files again to keep himself occupied. But when he had put them away earlier, he must have done it sloppily. Several papers slid out of their folders and into the aisle. He looked around, and it didn’t seem to wake anyone.

He bent down to reach for them, but before he could pick them up, another hand came down and did it for him. Sherlock immediately looked up to see who the hand belonged to. He recognized him from the airport, but didn’t make a point to remember him. He was about 40, with light brown hair and tan skin—average.

Sherlock glared at him when the man began to look at the papers. When he saw Sherlock’s reaction to this, he handed them back.

“Here you go,” he grinned. “You know, these look pretty important. Better keep these in a safer place.”

_American…west coast. On his way home from England for—business. Divorced, two kids, but the wife took custody. Smoker, trying to quit, but failing miserably._

When Sherlock didn’t say anything, the man nodded his head walked away. As he left, Sherlock muttered a short ‘thank you’.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the remainder of the flight reviewing the files, but came up with nothing. When John woke up—well, when Sherlock woke him up—he asked for his opinion in desperation. Neither of them had any theories. They decided that they needed to investigate.

When the plane landed, Sherlock rose to gather his luggage and left, leaving John to fend for himself. As Sherlock headed for the baggage claim, he accidentally bumped into the man he saw earlier. Then man nodded apologetically before stopping, “Well, we just keep tripping over each other, don’t we?” he smiled kindly.

“Yes, so it seems,” Sherlock said irritably.

“Oh, you’re from England? In that case, welcome to America.”

Sherlock glanced down at the bag the man was carrying. His name was printed on a tag.

“And welcome home, Mr. Caraway,” Sherlock said, trying to sound impressive. He left Caraway with a bewildered, and slightly concerned, expression.

He found John lost in the airport, obviously trying to find either Sherlock or the baggage claim.

“Sherlock!” he yelled, sounding agitated.

“Let’s just get our bags and leave,” he said simply as they left in the right direction. He was ready to leave this place.

Once they retrieved everything, they headed out to the parking garages. Mycroft had told them that he arranged a rental car for them. He only provided a picture and the keys.

“Well, then...” John said as they looked at the expanse of cars scattered across the multi-level complex.

After the mindless wandering and beeping car alarms, it took them nearly thirty minutes to find the correct car. They saw that the windshield bore a cheap American flag.

“How nice.”

Sherlock asked for the keys, “I’ll drive.”

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock opened the car’s right-hand door. John opened the left door and climbed in. When Sherlock sat down, his hands were poised to handle a steering wheel, but he could only grab a fistful of air. He turned to John’s side of the car, and saw that the steering wheel was on the other side.

“John…” Sherlock said.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something wrong with this car….”

John held out his hand, and Sherlock gave him the keys.

“Do you not know _anything_ about America?” he asked as he started the car.

“Well, apparently _you_ do.”

“Come on. This is basic stuff. American cars have the wheel on the left side.”

“What else do they do? Drive on the wrong side of the road?” he said in jest.

“Actually…” John said as he drove out of the parking complex. He turned onto the right side of the road and left the airport.

“John.”

“What?”

“John, what are you doing?”

“I’m driving.”

“You’re driving on the—what are you doing?” he exclaimed as a car passed them on the left side.

“Americans drive on the right side of the road. So does most of the world.”

“Dear God…” he murmured as he saw more cars driving recklessly on the wrong side of the road.

“John.”

“Shut up.”

“Mycroft said that he wants us to meet the governor when we arrive.”

“Wh—you want to follow your brother’s orders?”

“No, but I think that it’s the most logical approach. We should figure out why we’re here.”

“O-Okay, but…how do we do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…I’ve never actually been to Sacramento. How do we know how to find the governor?”

Sherlock seemed to ponder this. “I assume that we look for some sort of colonial, very American- looking building surrounded by men in white stockings and powdered wigs.”

 

* * *

 

Eventually, with the help of several locals and not much help from confusing road signs, they found the Capitol building. It was colonial, as Sherlock predicted. John thought it was amazing, but Sherlock shrugged and made no further comment.

As they walked to the front steps, a group of men in black suits came outside and escorted them inside. John was obviously inspired by the incredible architecture and artwork of the building as they walked through the front doors. Sherlock, though he wouldn’t admit it, was also impressed. It was stunning.

The floors were marble, as were most of the walls. Further inside was a massive rotunda, lined with intricate molding and murals. There were endless rows of marble columns and stairwells. He saw a balcony sitting above them, and if one were to look down, you could see a large sculpture of Queen Isabella centered on black-and-white checkered floors. As they continued walking, they came to a set of double doors. They were surrounded by black marble and two flags—America and California. A bronze statue of a bear was guarding the doors.

Sherlock and John were led into the room. It looked like a conference room, with a round table in the center and chairs surrounding it. At the end of the room was a desk, where a man with white hair was sitting.

When the man saw them enter, he stood. “Mr. Holmes, I presume?”

“Governor Hale,” Sherlock said politely. They shook hands. “It’s an honor, sir.”

Hale’s eyes were slightly red and bloodshot. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Holmes. And, you must be his…” he held out his hand to John.

“Assistant,” John said, shaking his hand. “John Watson.”

“Good to meet you both. Sit down,” he motioned to the chairs before them.

“We mean no disrespect, sir, but we’ve been sitting for eight hours. I think we’d rather stand, if that’s alright,” Sherlock said. John was surprised by his improved manners.

“Of course. Now, is there anything you want to know about the case before we begin?”

“Actually, before we get into that, I’d like to know why you asked for _me_ ,” Sherlock asked.

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sure you know news of your little suicide scheme spread quickly, along with your reputation.

“My friend, Allan Carr, fell victim to this murderer. We knew each other since we were kids…” he trailed off. “Our police department hasn’t made much progress, and they’re getting desperate. I figured that you were the best man for the job. I got in touch with your brother, who I’ve dealt with before, and the rest is history.”

Sherlock nodded. “It seems that you were close to Mr. Carr. Could you tell me more about him?”

“Well, I don’t know anything that would help you—“

“You would be surprised with what little details can do, sir.”

Hale nodded. “Well, he’s a local—lived in Sacramento his whole life. He has a wife and a son. No family troubles. He owned his own fishing shop on the river. He loved fishing…maybe _obsessed_ is a better word.”

“Obsessed?”

“Yeah. It was all he would talk about sometimes. He kept a log of which fish he caught. He would determine what kind of equipment was best for the river. He recently bought a new boat, too. It was _at least_ twenty thousand dollars. You could say that he was obsessed.”

Sherlock made a mental note of this. “Do you know of the circumstances in which the body was found?”

He took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was still grieving. “You’d have to talk to the detective in charge of the case. I don’t have that kind of information.”

“Could you direct us to him?”

“Sure. I’ll have you escorted to the precinct,” he said as he motioned for the men behind them to do as he said. “Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

“Of course, sir,” Sherlock smiled. “And our condolences,” he nodded sympathetically.

After they left, Sherlock and John got in the car and waited for the other officers to lead them to the precinct.

“I’m impressed Sherlock,” John said. “You treated him with respect.”

“Don’t think that I’ve had a sudden change in mannerism. I didn’t say that to be polite.”

“…What?”

“You know how I am. I would treat the king of England with such respect.”

“Then…”

“It was an experiment. John, really, after the Caesar investigation, I would think that your deductive skills have improved. I guess I was wrong.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“The key to growth is the introduction of higher dimensions of consciousness into our awareness.”_

_-Lao Tzu_

* * *

John kept asking what the experiment was for, but Sherlock would challenge him to figure it out himself. He decided there was no point in pursuing it any further, so he stopped pressing the subject.

Sherlock and John arrived at the Sacramento Police Department with minimal complications, even though Sherlock insisted on driving. It was small, compared to NSY. Sherlock certainly wasn’t impressed.

The officers from the Capitol drove off after they made it to the front doors and announced their arrival to the front desk. The two were left to wait for the detective in charge of the case.

“An American detective…” Sherlock said bitterly, “I’m sure he won’t be much help.”

“Sherlock…”

“Right, right. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions before I’ve even met him,” he said mockingly.

“It’s true. Maybe—“

One of the officers called to them from the hallway for them to enter. As they stood, Sherlock turned up his coat collar.

With impossibly low expectations, Sherlock entered the office first, with John following behind him. The man at the desk was putting away a book, replacing it on a small shelf behind him.

“You’re _reading a book_ while there’s a serial killer loose in the city?!” Sherlock exclaimed before saying anything else.

The detective was obviously taken aback by his sudden outburst, but he smiled politely, “I like to read—helps me think,” he tapped his finger to his temple. He stood and held out his hand to Sherlock, but still kept it close to himself, “Detective Emmett Greene. It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Detective Greene was average looking, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His hair was short, dark brown, with a slight wave. Based on the stubble around his chin, it looked like he was either growing a beard or hadn’t shaved.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John stepped in, “Sorry, Detective. He can be…well…”

“No, it’s okay. Governor Hale warned be about him,” he stage-whispered to John, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thank you for having me, Detective Greene. Now…shall we—“

“Yes. You probably want to work on the case,” he went behind his desk to retrieve a few files, “Please, sit.”

John sat in one of the chair, but Sherlock continued to wander around the office. When Greene noticed, he set down the files and folded his hands on the desk.

“So, Mr. Holmes, they say that you can tell a person’s life story just by looking at them.”

Sherlock turned to him, “…Does news spread that fast?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

“Come, on. I’m curious.”

Sherlock scoffed and walked up to him. After a few moments, he spoke up, “Your wife divorced you a few months ago, you have two sons, you played the clarinet when you were in school, you’re nearly blind in one eye, and you sleep with your mouth open.”

Greene looked from Sherlock to John a few times before letting out an exasperated, “Wow…”

“Well? Are you convinced?”

“How did you know all of that stuff…?”

Sherlock sighed, but continued on with his explanation, “You have pictures of your family on your desk, but they’re just your children, your wife either not in the picture or torn out of it, suggesting finalization, therefore, divorce. The most recent one is with you and your sons, based on the time stamp, so you have custody, or at least partial custody. And since these pictures were taken only a few months ago, your wife left not far before that point. Then the clarinet…you still play it, based on the curvature of your fingers. The index and thumb are straight whereas the pinky is naturally curved, indicating the natural placement on the instrument, and its intensity suggests years of playing. The electrical outlet to the side of your desk…you frequent it, but there are scratch marks, so you have trouble plugging anything in because of your lack of depth perception. Not only this, but when you held out your hand to shake mine, it was still abnormally close to your body, so you  couldn’t tell you far to reach. The edges of your front teeth are slightly transparent, resulting from the oxidation while you’re exhaling, and since you’re not breathing from your mouth now, you do it in your sleep. Did I miss anything?”

John rolled his eyes as Greene sat awestruck. “H-How…”

“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock insisted.

“What? Oh—yeah. Uh, my wife. I didn’t divorce her…”

“Ah…was she the one who—“

“She died,” he said shortly.

There was a beat of awkward silence, but John nodded apologetically to Greene, who clapped his hands, “Well, enough of that. It really was incredible, Mr. Holmes, but we should get to work.”

Sherlock smiled politely and sat down beside John. “I have the general details. Three victims, each with a different modus operandi. The parchment with the numbers, have you deciphered them?”

“No. We’re still working on that.”

“Then there’s the leather. Was there any found at the crime scenes?”

“No. Witnesses say that it was just the smell. You know how distinctive it is.”

“Then what progress _have_ you made?”

“…We’re sad to say…not much.”

Sherlock sighed. “Why don’t we start with the governor’s friend by the river.”

“What? Why there?” John asked.

“The governor is anxious. And we have sufficient information. Detective Greene, did you ever find a fishing boat on the river?”

He furrowed his brow, “No, I don’t think so.”

“But witnesses say that he was fishing. Tell me, why would you buy a 20,000—what are they, dollars?—fishing boat…which I’m assuming is a lot…and not use it? The boat has to be somewhere on the river. It’s a fine place to start.”

“Wait, why do you think the boat will help us?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Detective, how did Allan Carr die?”

“He drowned.”

“Right. We need to know how and why he fell out of the boat _and_ why he couldn’t swim to save his own life. Being an experienced fisherman, he had to have known how to swim. Do you not look at such obvious questions, Detective?”

Greene sighed. “Let’s go then. The body is at the morgue, but the scene is still preserved.”

As they left the office, John continued to apologize to Greene for Sherlock’s behavior. 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Life is like the river, sometimes it sweeps you gently along and sometimes the rapids come out of nowhere.”_

_-Emma Smith_

* * *

The Sacramento River flows through most of Northern California, and Sacramento is home to the south end of it. Before they banned salmon fishing, the population of anadromous fish diminished significantly due to overfishing. Now, they allow fishing in some areas after repopulation. Since then, fishing in the river grows more and more popular.

This is what Greene told Sherlock and John on the way to the crime scene. The water was also calm, he said—perfect for aspiring fishermen.

After wading through shallow water, they came to a patch of the shoreline, marked by strips of yellow barricade tape.

_The only entrance from this side requires a trek through shallow water._

There were only a few officers keeping watch, and investigations had ceased. They preserved the scene so Sherlock could see it when he arrived.

“Here we are,” Greene announced. “Off you go.”

Sherlock paced, scanning the area. He figured that any evidence had been removed from the scene, but he still wanted to look.

There was an outline of a body at the edge of the water, made with white tape. His arms were at his sides, so he must have been floating on the water for a while. There weren’t any bloodstains, but if there were, they would have been washed away by the tides. Nothing unusual.

He checked the immediate vicinity. Rows of shrubbery lined the area, secluding the shoreline. The only other access point was the shallow water they had to tread through from the opposite shore.

“Were there any broken branches or twigs around these bushes?” he asked Greene.

“What?”

“Bushes, like trees, but smaller. Branches…broken? Over here,” he said bitterly.

Green sighed, “No, I don’t think we checked. The killer didn’t have to come to the scene because Carr was already dead. Besides, why would he go through the bushes when he can come this way?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Do not assume such simplistic explanations are the _only_ explanations. If your investigations were more thorough, you wouldn’t have had to bring me here.”

“Sherlock…” John warned.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to examine the shrubs. “Detective, the paper in the victim’s hand…was it wet?”

Greene paused before answering, “No.”

“Then the killer had to plant it _after_ the victim washed ashore. He came here…and then he left…”

“Wait, if he killed the guy on the river—“

“Shut up, John.”

“Sherlock—“

“John, _shut up_.”

“You don’t need complete silence to look for broken branches.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Sherlock, if he killed him on the river, then he had to be with him somehow.”

Sherlock turned around to face John, “What do you mean?”

“Unless we’re talking about the Loch Ness monster, then he had to have been on the guy’s boat or a different one. I’ll put my money on the latter.”

Sherlock, not having found anything in the bushes, considered John’s theory. “He had a boat…”

“Mr. Holmes, we didn’t find any boats around here,” Greene said.

Sherlock looked up, “Yes…don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Not really. The killer could have taken them.”

“Them? So you think the killer had his own boat?”

Greene paused, “Well, it makes the most sense. Witnesses say that Carr was alone.”

“Which witnesses?”

“Some people saw him at his marina by his shop. They saw him leave alone.”

Sherlock nodded. “So, the victim leaves on his last voyage in his fishing boat and sails up the river. He encounters another boat—the killer. Something happens…Carr drowns, but we don’t know how. Then the killer tows Carr’s boat away and disposes of it. He then follows the body in his own boat as it drifts off. When it washes ashore, he plants his signature and sails off.”

Both Greene and John agreed. “But we still have to figure out the in-between part.”

“And in order to do that, we need to find the victim’s boat.”

“W-Why the boat?” Green asked.

“I don’t know. It could tell us _something_.”

“Then we better start looking,” John suggested.

 

* * *

 

Greene issued a search party for the missing boat while Sherlock and John left for the morgue. Greene gave them incredibly vague directions to the hospital, but after asking for directions, they arrived.

When they told the front desk who they were, they gained access to the morgue easily. Once inside, a pathologist introduced herself and led them to Carr’s body.

“Allan Carr, male, 46. Drowned—“

“Yes we know. Could I also see the victim’s clothes?”

“Wh—uh, sure,” she said dubiously. Once she left, Sherlock and John were left to examine the body.

They pulled the sheet back to reveal his face. John stepped in.

“Lots of scratches and bruising. Looks like he was beaten around pretty hard…mostly after he died.”

“The result of drifting lifelessly along the river. What else?”

John pulled the body to its side carefully. “Bruising around the back of the neck—“

“What?”

“Look,” he pointed to the dark spot on his neck, “He wasn’t strangled, or the bruising would be all around, but something must have hit him. And it must have hurt,” John winced. “This had to have been made by a really heavy object, or he was struck with a considerable amount of force…”

“What could be the result of this type of injury?”

“Well, I mean, it wouldn’t paralyze you, but it would hurt.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, “This isn’t making any sense! Why would the killer aim for the neck and not the head? He must have wanted to render him unconscious, but—” he moaned.

“There has to be a logical explanation, Sherlock. There always is.”

“Wait…wait…”

John looked at him expectantly, “I’m waiting.”

“In order to get in such close proximity to the victim, the killer had to be in the same boat, right?”

“Well—yeah, I guess.”

“But the witnesses said that he was alone.”

John thought about this. “Then…how did the killer—wait, he either got on the boat while they were on the river or the two boats were close together.”

“The latter is more likely. But—wait…”

John sighed as Sherlock zoned out again.

“If they were so close together, then how did Carr not notice the killer holding a heavy weapon?”

“Well, he was turned around. If he struck him on the back of the neck, then he couldn’t see the weapon.”

“Yes, but before that. If they were close, then they saw the contents of each other’s boats,” Sherlock paused to see if John reacted. When he didn’t, he continued, “Don’t you see? The weapon was kept on the boat, so the killer had to hide it in plain sight.”

John shook his head, not knowing where Sherlock was going with this.

“The weapon…it was a piece of fishing equipment.”

John shrugged. “O-kay.”

Sherlock sighed, “Maybe the killer originally wanted to bludgeon him to death, but when he missed his target, he resorted to drowning—hmm, that doesn’t make sense…”

John remained silent as Sherlock sat down.

“The weapon…what sort of fishing equipment could produce this sort of bruising?”

John shrugged again, “I dunno…a long stick? Fishing pole?”

“No, too pliable. Something sturdier…”

“Well, the only other think I can think of is a harpoon, but I don’t think there are any whales in the Sacramento River.”

Sherlock stood quickly. “Who says there aren’t whales in the river?”

“Well, it’s unlikely. I mean—“

“There’s a delta that leads to the Pacific Ocean—“

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“Research. That’s beside the point. Whales could lose their way and end up in the river. Smaller whales, of course.”

John sighed. “Okay, that’s great and all, but what do whales have to do with this?”

Sherlock sat for several minutes, but came up with nothing.

“When they find the boats, we’ll know.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

_“Information is not knowledge.”_

  
_-Albert Einstein_   


* * *

_  
_   


 

On the way back to the precinct, Sherlock got a text from Greene.

 

_We’re still looking for the boats. May take a while. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and I’ll see you tomorrow? - Greene_

 

“How did Greene get my phone number?” Sherlock asked himself.

 

John shrugged, “Mycroft.”

 

_I have a theory. SH_

_It can wait till tomorrow._

 

_No, it can’t._

 

_Yes it can._

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

_Shouldn’t you have a sense of urgency?_

 

_I think you misinterpret comprehensiveness for apathy. These things take time._

 

“Lestrade was never this slow,” Sherlock said, giving up.

 

“Yeah, well…”

 

Mycroft had already given them directions to their hotel, so they didn’t have an incredibly difficult finding it. John agreed with Greene--the theories could wait. He needed to sleep.

 

When they arrived, they proceeded to the front desk, where they checked in successfully. After they were finished, they found the elevator. There were two lifts, one up and one down. As they waited for the one going up, the other door opened, revealing the man who was standing inside. Sherlock sighed aggravatedly to himself.

 

“Hey! Wow, what a coincidence…” Mr. Caraway exited the elevator and tried to shake Sherlock’s hand, who refused.

 

“It’s funny that you’re staying here,” he kept talking, even though Sherlock was overtly impatient. “I’m visiting my mother-in-law here...she’s visiting from Oregon.”

 

Sherlock nodded as the elevator doors opened, letting them enter.

 

“Oh, well, it was good to see you again, sir,” he said as he held the elevator door open. “My name’s Tim, by the way...Tim Caraway. But I bet you already knew that,” he laughed.

 

“Good night, Mr. Caraway,” Sherlock said as he removed Caraway’s hand from the doors and allowed them to close. He punched the button that he thought was correct (the numbers were chipped off, so he couldn’t read them) and stood patiently.

 

“Who was that?” John asked.

 

“I met him on the plane...well, rather _he_ met _me_.”

 

John nodded, still confused.

 

“Nothing to be bothered with...just another annoying American,” Sherlock assured him.

 

When the doors opened, they began to search the corridor for the correct rooms.

 

“Our room numbers are…” John paused as he checked the papers, “506 and 507. All of these rooms start with fours.”

 

“Impeccable observation, John.”

 

“But this is the fifth floor, isn’t it?” he turned back to direction of the elevator, bewildered.

 

“Well, then we must be mistaken,” Sherlock said as they made their way back to the lift. Once inside, they examined all of the floor numbers.

 

“Look, the lobby is the ground floor, then it goes directly to the second floor,” John noted. “Where’s the first floor?”

 

“Lost in the American void, I suppose,” Sherlock said as he pushed the correct button.

 

“I bet they call the ground floor the ‘first floor’. Then our first floor is their second floor.”

 

Sherlock massaged his temples, “I hate this country.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once they found their rooms, Sherlock immediately entered his to review the case files again. He began with the first victim, skimming some of the unimportant details:

_Ronald Griffin...Male...54_

 

_Cause of Death: Loss of blood_

 

_Twelve stab wounds…_

 

_Body was found on the Amtrak Railroad at approx. 5:50 AM._

 

_Potential motives not found._

 

_Additional notes: 5:00 departure was cancelled due to scheduling. The next train was to leave at 6:00 AM that morning._

 

Sherlock considered this. It meant that there weren’t any trains due to cross the path of the body until 6:00 that morning. That means that he was killed at some point between the last trains and the 6:00 train. He looked to see if this information was in the file, but it wasn’t. He moved on to the next case:

 

_Freda Cain...Female...79_

 

_Cause of Death: Severe cranial laceration_

 

_Found at home by daughter at approx. 5:40 PM._

 

_Murder weapon (axe) found at scene. No fingerprints._

 

_Potential motives not found._

 

Sherlock initially presumed that the victims were random, but he was finding the crimes to be very specific. He moved on to the last file:

 

_Allan Carr… Male…46_

 

_Cause of Death: (Forced) Drowning_

 

_Found washed ashore by kayakers at approx. 1:20 PM._

 

_Bruising found at the back of the neck._

 

_Witnessed leaving marina in fishing boat alone._

 

_Approx. time spent in water: 5-7 minutes._

 

_Additional notes: Boat was never retrieved._

 

Sherlock had experience with serial killers. He knew that all of their murders followed some sort of pattern, no matter how obscure. Whether it be the victims, the modus operandi, or the location, they always followed a regiment.

 

None of these aspects were related to each other. They were completely and utterly random. But Sherlock knew that this couldn’t be. There was a pattern that, perhaps, only the killer could see.

 

But, of course, there was one thing that serial killers tend to forget: if they can see a pattern, so can Sherlock Holmes.

 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was still unsure about any possible conclusions. Perhaps the most perplexing element of this case was the killer’s signature. He turned back to confirm the three numbers appearing on each piece of paper found at the scene:

 

_42...77...565…_

 

Sherlock rearranged the numbers in his head, trying to make sense of them. There was nothing of any significance that he could find at the moment.

 

When it came to serial killers, not only was there a pattern, but there was also connectivity. Each aspect of their crimes were usually related somehow. Sherlock decided that in order to solve one aspect of the murders, he would first have to solve another.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock could hardly ever sleep, and this night was no exception. He reviewed the information in his head over and over again, absorbing it. His train of thought was interrupted by a text alert from his phone. When he picked it up to see who it was, he groaned.

 

_You awake? - EG_

 

_No. SH_

 

_We have another body._

 

There was a long pause on Sherlock’s end.

 

_Where?_

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

_  
“Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.”_

_\- William Shakespeare_

* * *

 

It was dark outside, but that didn’t keep the Sacramento police department from investigating the fourth murder.

 

Sherlock and John were already at the crime scene, escorted by Greene. They had artificial light surrounding the area, careful not to damage any potential evidence.

 

Greene explained a few details:

 

The body was found here, in his own pool, behind his house. He was floating, face-down, in the water, a bullet in his back. He lived alone, but was apparently have a few visitors for the holidays.

 

“Holidays?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Thanksgiving,” Greene reminded him.

 

Sherlock shrugged.

 

“Nevermind.”

 

His parents and sibling were visiting, all living outside of the city save one. All of them claim that they were gone or asleep during the time of the murder.

 

Based on the size of the house, the owner was obviously well-off. Wealth, Sherlock noted, was a definite motive for most crimes.

 

The paper was found on the edge of the pool, away from the water. It read ‘162’.

 

Sherlock couldn’t examine the body well enough, since it had drifted to the center of the pool. He did, however, test the water with the tips of his fingers--icy.

 

“The water is cold.”

 

“Well, that makes sense,” Greene commented, “It’s almost December.”

 

“Yes...then why was he swimming?”

 

Greene frowned, “Not sure.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Neither do I, but I think that this questions should be considered with utmost priority.”

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He paced the edge of the pool, stepping through crunching, dried leaves. The pool contained similar pieces of dead leaves and twigs.

 

“He hadn’t used the pool in a while,” Sherlock thought aloud.

 

“Probably because it’s almost Decem--”

 

“Yes, yes, thank you Greene. I think we’ve established that.”

 

John started to apologize, but Sherlock interrupted him, “John, could you check inside the house? Look for any signs of forced entry? Thank you.”

 

He started to turn, but something caught his eye. “Sherlock…”

 

“John, please, I need to--”

 

“It’s that guy from the hotel.”

 

Sherlock turned to the direction John was facing, only to find that Tim Caraway was standing at the other end of the yard, talking to one of the officers.

 

“Oh, God no…”

 

John slapped him on the back, “I’ll leave you to it then,” he said quickly, and walked off to investigate inside.

 

Greene could see that Sherlock was glaring at Caraway. “That’s the guy who found the body.”

 

“Detective, what was the victim’s name?”

 

“Dan Caraway.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He would usually call this a coincidence.

 

With permission from Greene, he was able to ask Caraway a few questions.

 

“Tim Caraway?” he asked when he approached him.

 

When he turned, his eyes were red, and his breath was shaky. But when he saw Sherlock, his eyes widened. “Y-You…?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

 

“You,” he swallowed, “...you work with the police? I thought you were from England.”

 

“Well, right now, I’m in America. Now, how were you related to Mr. Caraway?”

 

“He was--my brother,” his voice cracked.

 

“When did you find the body?”

 

“Uh, I dunno...around midnight.”

 

“What were you doing up so late?”

 

“I was coming home from the hotel, remember? I--I was visiting my mother-in-law--my sister’s husband’s mother--and then my car broke down on the road. I had to call a tow truck, and it took them a while to get there. When I finally got home, I rested a bit as I waited for my car. Then I noticed that no one was around--usually Dan was up and about late at night. I walked around to the back, just to check. The doors here, leading to the yard...they’re glass. So when I walked past them, I saw him--” he stopped, tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“Where was the rest of the family?”

 

“Oh, uh, well, let’s see…our parents were asleep upstairs, my sister and her husband were out on the town, and his mom was at the hotel. As far as I know, Dan was here all day.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

“Inside.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Why did you visit your mother-in-law so late at night?”

 

“I got off work later than expected, but she still wanted me to visit.”

 

“What were you doing in England?”

 

“Business.”

 

“What kind of business?”

 

Caraway paused before answering, “I work for an advertising agency, and my client is working with a company in London. I went with a few other business partners, but they stayed for a few extra days. I wanted to come home early for Thanksgiving.”

 

“What is this ‘Thanksgiving’? Is it an American holiday?” Sherlock asked, bewildered.

“Uh...yeah, it’s American…”

 

“I guess it’s not important,” he said as he scrutinized Caraway for another moment. “Don’t you think it’s strange? We meet on the plane, then the airport, then the hotel. Now this...I’d say it’s more than a coincidence, don’t you think?”

 

Caraway laughed weakly, “I dunno, man. I think it’s pretty weird, but I don’t think it means any--”

 

“Are you sure you’re telling me the whole truth?”

 

Caraway’s brow furrowed, “O-Of course.”

 

Behind Caraway, Sherlock saw John at the glass doors leading into the house. He was motioning for Sherlock to come inside.

 

“Right, thank you. Excuse me.”

 

He stepped past Caraway and made his way to the house.

 

“I was looking around, found that the security system was hacked, no signs of forced entry. The family didn’t have much to say--by the way, why was that guy there?”

 

“Brother of the victim...found the body.”

 

John nodded, “Crazy coincidence, isn’t it?”

 

“Quixotic,” he said dismissively.

 

“Anyway, I did find the library…” John led them down a short corridor before entering a small large room lined with bookshelves.

 

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the overwhelming stench of leather. Upon further examination, he found that most of the book were leather-bound.

 

“Remember when Mycroft said that all of the witnesses said they smelled leather when they found the body? Well...I’d say this fits that description.”

 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate retrieving Caraway from the yard. He pulled him into the library, against Greene’s insistence that he stay.

 

“Mr. Caraway, did you happen to notice the smell of leather when you found the body?”

 

“That’s an odd question…”

 

“Just answer it.”

 

Caraway seemed to recall the incidence, “You know, I did smell something, but I don’t think it was leather.”

 

Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs and closed his eyes.

 

“Maybe the first three were just coincidences…” John suggested.

 

“‘Coincidence’...’coincidence’...that word has turned up quite a bit, hasn’t it? It was coincidence that I saw Mr. Caraway three times before now. It was coincidence that only three of the four witnesses could smell leather. It was coincidence that the governor of California just happened to be friends with one of the victims. John...there is nothing coincidental about this case.”

 

“Alright, then. Do you have a solution?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He, instead, retreated into his mind palace.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see an illustration of said mind palace, let me know in the comments. It's a frustrating process, and it seems that the only way I can give anyone access is directly :P It's not as artistic as it is the show, but it summarizes the information gathered thus far. I would suggest it...gives some hints:)


	7. Chapter 7

_"A room without books is like a body without a soul."_

_\- Cicero_

* * *

Sherlock didn't tell anyone that he suspected Caraway. It made perfect sense in his head, but he wouldn't be able to present any proof.

His alibi was solid. According to his passport, he was England for the past two weeks. The murders began during his time abroad.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was convinced that he had something to do with all of this. He didn't believe in coincidences.

Sherlock also decided that the presence of both vellum and morocco leather was no coincidence either. Both materials went hand-in-hand. The question was not 'how', but 'why'.

Each modus operandi was completely different, and he figured that the next would also be meaningless. As the police are desperate to find a pattern, Sherlock realized that there wasn't a pattern at all.

They were truly and utterly random.

But then, of course, serial killers aren't random. Whoever it was had a reason for committing these crimes, and Sherlock had to find this reason.

* * *

John was sitting in Greene's office, hoping to speak with him about Sherlock's theory about the murder of Allan Carr. Instead, the detective kept him waiting, but allowed him inside.

As he waited, John looked around at the various photographs and knick-knacks scattered about. It looked more like a home office than it did a detective's.

Behind the desk, John found a small bookshelf, holding several books.  _The Great Gatsby, Romeo and Juliet, Crime and Punishment_ , and a few other classics. All of them were read and reread, based on the torn and battered front covers. The detective obviously loved to read.

"Do you like to read?" a voice said from behind John. He whipped around to find that it was Greene, leaning against the door frame. He stepped back from the shelf and stood next to the desk.

"Er-yeah. But I don't get much time to read nowadays," he said.

Greene nodded. "Honestly...I think that everyone would be better off if they just picked up a good book," he said as he walked over to the shelf.

"W-What do you mean?"

Greene flipped through one of the books, "Nothing. It's nothing..."

He set the book down and sat in his chair. "So, Dr. Watson, what did you want to talk about?"

John sat in the chair across from Greene, "Sherlock was examining the body of Allan Carr, and we found some bruising-"

"Around the back of the neck...yes, we knew about that."

"Did you ever find out what it came from?"

"No. The medical examiners determined that it was from an incident days before his death. Completely unrelated."

"But-"

"What did Mr. Holmes have to say about it? We should consider every possibility."

"Well, he thought that, initially, the murderer struck him on the back of the neck just before he died."

"But why would the killer aim for the neck, not the head?"

"That's the big question."

"Maybe he was originally going to bludgeon him to death. Did you find a weapon?"

"No. Did you find the boat?"

"You think the weapon was on the boat?"

"It's the only possibility, really."

"It would have taken something fairly heavy to produce a bruise like that."

"That's what we said. We...presumed that it was a harpoon of sorts."

Greene paused with a bewildered expression, "A  _harpoon_?"

"Haven't there been sightings of whales in the river?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't think anyone goes whaling."

John shrugged, "It was just a theory."

"We never did determine how Allan Carr died. Sure, he drowned, but how?"

"Assuming that it was forced, there must have been a struggle."

"Oh, there was definitely a struggle."

"W-Why do you say that?"

"We found the boat. Floated down the river. It was cap-sized."

John's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I was just informed. That's where I was before I came in here. I planned to tell you and Mr. Holmes immediately."

"So, there was just one boat?"

"Just one. They're still looking for the other one, but again, we don't even know if there  _was_  another one."

"I'll call Sherlock. Where is it?"

* * *

Sherlock, John, and Greene were standing before the victim's boat, cap-sized, rammed between two rocks near the shore.

"It traveled far from its owner," Greene said. "I'm assuming that the killer tried to take it as far away as he could."

"Yes..." Sherlock muttered.

"Have you looked at its contents at all?" John asked.

"No. We wanted to wait for you guys."

Sherlock started towards one end of the boat, but Greene stopped him, "It's a big boat, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I can see that."

"We can lift it. I'll call-"

"It's a very large boat...isn't it?"

"...Y-Yes."

"Very large..."

"A-Alright, I'll just...be right back," Green murmured as he walked off, his phone in his hand.

Sherlock began to scan the underside of the boat. John came up behind him, "What was that about?"

"The size of the boat? Just an observation..."

John sighed. "You know, if there had been anything in the boat, it would have fallen out."

"Yes, I realized that."

"Then...do you really expect to find anything?"

"No."

John's brow furrowed, "Then-"

"You can be incredibly slow sometimes."

"..."

"Oh, stop. What's the first thing that comes to your mind when you look at this boat?"

"Uh...it's...big?"

"Exactly. You-"

"They're on their way," Greene interrupted as he put his phone in his pocket.

"I don't need to see the rest of the boat. We're done here," Sherlock announced.

"...What? But-"

"I think we're done for today," he smiled politely. He then started for the car, John following behind.

Greene was left on the shore alone as sound of the car engine faded in the distance. When he was sure that they were gone, he called off the search.

He wandered back to his own car, glad that Sherlock decided against examining the boat. He sat, wondering what to do. One of his books lying on the passenger's seat; he picked it up, opening it from the bookmark. He turned on the overhead light and began to read.


	8. Chapter 8

_  
"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted.”_

_\- Mahatma Gandhi_

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Holmes...come in. Sit down.”

 

Sherlock and John entered Greene’s office. Unlike their last visit, there were stacks of papers piled on his desk, all askew, precariously balanced among one another.

 

“I know you didn’t want to check out the boat, but I went ahead and did it myself. We didn’t find much, but…” Greene trailed off as he reached for a bag in one of the drawers, “...we got this.”

 

Inside the plastic evidence bag was a brown, leather wallet.

 

Sherlock picked it up and examined through its transparent container.

 

Regularly used, but empty...travelling?

 

“Owner?”

 

“No ID.”

 

“Fingerprints?”

 

“Still working on that.”

 

“Probably just the victim’s.” John said. “It was his boat.”

 

“But why would it have been necessary to bring a wallet at all? If he had, then it would have stayed in his pocket, unless he had a reason to take it out, which he wouldn’t have.”

 

“So you think it belongs to a second party?”

 

Sherlock paused before answering, “No need to jump to conclusions, Detective.”

 

An officer opened the door behind them and peered in. “Sir...it’s another one.”

 

Greene stood immediately, “Where?”

 

“21st street...that architect place.”

 

“On our way.”

 

* * *

 

It was Boulder Associates Architects, a high-end company specializing in modern architecture. Despite their reputability, the building they worked from was a small, brick building, with nothing particularly architectural. It was out-of-the-way, with a small bus stop and a few trees outside.

 

Inside, it was certainly more stylized, but no one paid much attention to the building. Sherlock scanned the first room for a body, but didn’t find one. He pushed through the crowd of officers and paramedics, and soon, John followed behind him. Greene called to them, “He’s still alive!”

 

When his words registered, Sherlock came upon a group of paramedics huddled around a gurney. As they wheeled it away, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the victim: a boy, no older than ten, with blood-soaked hair and a lifeless body. His chest would rise and lower rhythmically, indicating that he was still breathing.

 

John sighed with relief. “He made it.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “The killer’s first mistake…they always make one.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“He left a victim alive.”

 

“Yes. Now this kid gets to live. Why don’t we celebrate for a change?”

 

Greene stepped towards them, “They think he’ll survive,” he said, grinning. “He’s going to the hospital...he’s in no condition for questioning. I’ll show you where he was found,” he motioned for them to follow him into a short corridor. They were handed gloves before they entered a small office.

 

There was a blood stain on the carpet, marking where the victim landed when he was--

 

“Attempted cause of death?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Tried to smash his head in. With what, we don’t know.”

 

The blood stain marked where the victim landed when he was hit, but it wasn’t enough to kill him.

 

Why didn’t he strike again?

On the floor, an arm’s-length away from the blood, was a piece of vellum. It read ‘181’.

 

He saw one of the investigators pick up a pair of glasses from the floor and carefully place them in a plastic bag. At his feet, he could see small shards of glass--the glasses were broken. He assumed that they fell off when the victim was knocked over, and in the struggle, were stepped on.

 

“Whose office is this?”

 

“The victim’s father’s. He works here.”

 

“And he found his son?”

 

“Yep. He went to the hospital with him. I think we should give them some space for a while.”

 

“Name?”

 

“James Harper is the father, and his son is Aaron Harper. And guess what?”

 

Sherlock turned his head to Greene, with a look of mock curiosity.

 

“They’re from across the pond, too!” he said, failing to successfully mimic and English accent.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

John pulled Sherlock to the other side of the room, out of earshot. “Don’t you think that there’s something--”

 

“John, we don’t have time for speculation.”

 

“No, just--listen. These scenes...the murders...there’s something...I dunno...surreal about them, don’t you think?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Like...it’s like this weird feeling of deja vu.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “John…have you--”

 

But before Sherlock could finish his sentence, his eyes flicked to the window, which looked out to the front of the building: the bus stop. A bus had pulled up, and when the doors opened, he saw Caraway step out and onto the pavement.

 

Sherlock quickly asked Greene for the wallet he had found in the boat and ran off with it. Greene called after him, but Sherlock was nearly out the door. He stopped abruptly, calmly exiting the building and headed towards Caraway.

 

When he saw Sherlock, his eyes widened again, “Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Mr. Caraway...could I ask what you were doing on the bus?”

 

“I was...just coming back from the funeral. My car is still in the shop. Wh-What are you doing here?”

 

“Is this your wallet?” he asked as he held it up.

 

“Oh my God...yes, uh, where was it? I’ve been looking for it since yesterday,” he took it from Sherlock’s hands.

 

“Yesterday?”

 

“Yeah...uh...where’s all of my stuff?”

 

“It was empty when we found it.”

 

“‘We’?”

 

“It was found in a fishing boat.”

 

“Well...I don’t fish--”

 

“The boat of a murder victim, Mr. Caraway,” Sherlock said simply.

 

Caraway didn’t react at first. He slowly slipped the wallet into his pocket and glared at Sherlock.

 

“I was in England, Mr. Holmes. You saw me. This has been missing since yesterday. How could my wallet have been in America while I was in England?”

 

“I never said I suspected you.”

 

“But you do suspect me, don’t you.”

 

“...Yes.”

 

Caraway groaned. “I’ve had enough of your--”

“Sherlock?” John interrupted from the front entrance, “Seashell...there’s a seashell in the office.”

 

“Wh--John, I’m in the middle of an interrogation.”

 

“Seashell. In the office. Huge.”

 

“So?”

 

“Fingerprints.”

 

“John, if you would speak in complete sentences, that would be immensely helpful. Whose fingerprints?”

 

John held up his finger and pointed at Caraway.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

_"What state do you live in?_

_Denial."_

_\- Bill Watterson_

* * *

 

"This isn't an arrest, is it?" Caraway asked as he entered the interrogation room back at the precinct.

"No...we just have a few questions," Sherlock said, trying to sound assuring.

After the discovery of the fingerprints, Caraway was taken in for questioning. Sherlock and Greene were to be present, while John watched through the one-way mirror.

Caraway was seated in a uncomfortable folding chair, Greene took the desk chair, and Sherlock took a rolling chair. Caraway was fidgeting already: clasping and unclasping his hands, slicking his hair back, and licking his lips.

"How's your family doing, Mr. Caraway?" Greene asked, "I couldn't imagine how hard it must be…"

"We're still...we're doing better," he answered.

"Did you enjoy your stay in England?" Sherlock continued.

"Yes, actually. Very much."

"Good," Sherlock smiled.

"Did you hear about the murders while you were over there?"

"No. To be honest, I don't really pay attention to the news, no matter where I am," he laughed.

"Then, you had no idea that your brother was the victim of a serial killer...initially."

"No. That's why…" he trailed off.

Greene leaned forward, "Why...what?"

Caraway sighed, "Nothing, it's just...I thought…"

"Mr. Caraway, we need you tell us the truth."

" _I am_! If you think that I had anything to-"

"Sir, we're not accusing you of anything. We just want to hear your side of the story," Greene said as he wrote something on his notepad.

Sherlock suddenly sneezed.

"Tissue?" Greene offered.

Sherlock shook his head, "Mr. Caraway, if you could elaborate a bit more, that would be most helpful."

"Alright. I'll tell you my side of the story...if that's what you're asking."

Greene nodded, "That's a good place to start."

"I left for England two days before the first murder, I found out later. I came back the day after the third. As I said, I don't really look at the papers or the news, so I didn't know about the serial killings."

"Did your family tell you anything?"

"No. I'm guessing that they didn't know about it either," he said simply. Sherlock could see that he was starting to sweat. "Anyway, it wasn't until I found my brother, and the police came and told me."

"Can you prove that you were in England?"

"Wh-yeah, of course. I have m-my passport, my plane tickets, and my co-workers can vouch for me. I can tell you how to contact them-"

"That won't be necessary. If you were in England during the third murder, how did your wallet show up at the crime scene?" Greene asked.

"I already told Mr. Holmes...I had it in England with me. I lost it the day my brother died."

Greene glared at him, "Sir, I'm afraid that's impossible."

"I swear to God, I-"

"Why don't we come back to that," Sherlock stopped him. "You're aware that your fingerprints were found at the scene of the fifth murder, right?"

"Yes. You're friend...the short one-" Caraway said, resulting in a muffled "Oi!" from John, who was still in the observation room, "...he said they were on a seashell. Weird, right?"

"Preposterous. We found the seashell-" Sherlock sneezed again.

"You okay?" Greene asked.

"Yes, fine. We found the seashell in the victim's father's office, the scene of the attempted murder."

"How do you know it was attempted murder?" Caraway asked, sounding curious.

"A piece of vellum was found, like all the others," Greene answered for Sherlock.

"What did it say?"

"We can't tell you."

Caraway leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms defensively. "Why would my fingerprints be on a seashell? Did you ever think about that?"

Sherlock sighed. "Murder weapon. Obvious."

"Was there blood?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Greene interjected, "Yes."

Caraway seemed to stiffen and clenched his jaw. Sherlock glanced at Greene. He had given Caraway false information. There wasn't a drop of blood found anywhere save the floor.

There was a beat of silence before Sherlock spoke up, "Mr. Caraway...could you explain to us why your fingerprints were found at the scene of an attempted murder?"

" _I don't know_ ," he insisted.

Greene stood, motioning for Sherlock to follow him out of the interrogation room. Caraway waited, seated in his chair.

They found John in the observation room, his arms folded, and a crease on his forehead.

"Well?" he asked when the two entered.

"Not sure," Greene said as he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

"Why did you lie?" John wondered, more to himself as he looked at Caraway.

"Standard procedure. Sometimes, when you present false evidence, the suspect will start to get nervous, and is more likely to crack under the pressure. It's all psychological."

"I think it worked," Sherlock remarked.

"But you know," Greene said to both of them, "all of this evidence we have against him-the wallet, the prints, the location-it all seems...planted."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well-" Greene began, but was interrupted by a loud sneeze.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're okay?" John asked.

"I'm fine. It would have been impossible to plant the wallet, first of all. He must be lying about the day he supposedly lost it."

"We can't forget," John commented, "that he was in England for the first three. It's virtually impossible for him to have committed those crimes."

"Then...what do we do? Does that vindicate him?"

"No one is innocent until the guilty party has been identified," Sherlock said, sounding raspy.

"Sherlock, I think you're getting sick."

"I don't get sick."

"Everyone gets sick."

"I told you,  _I'm fine_."

"I'm gonna let Caraway go," Greene stated simply. "There's no point in keeping him here while he has the best alibi you could have."

"What?" Sherlock was still convinced that Caraway had something to do with this.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I just can't keep him here," he shrugged as he entered the room again to tell Caraway.

Sherlock sniffled, "Well…"

"We should get you some medicine. I think you're catching a cold," John said in a professional tone.

"No I'm not!  _I'm fine_!"


	10. Chapter 10

_"Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery."_

_-JK Rowling_

* * *

 

"Here you go," John said as he gave Sherlock a pill and a glass of water.

"Thanks," he replied, but his throat was so scratchy that it was barely audible.

It was the morning after Caraway's interrogation, and Sherlock had woken up with a severe cold-or at least as severe as the common cold can get.

Sherlock swallowed the pill quickly and drank most of the water, "This water," he whispered, "...it tastes funny."

"No it doesn't."

Sherlock placed the glass on the nightstand and collapsed on the bed. "I don't know what's wrong with me, John."

"It's just the cold."

"I think I've been infected by some exotic parasite."

"You'll get over it in a few days," John assured him. "Just rest for today, and drink plenty of water."

"Greene texted me. He said that the victim is ready to talk to us."

"Already?"

"Wait...maybe it was his father...I don't remember. Something like that. They're at the hospital."

"Well, we can't go if you're sick. It'll...have to…" John trailed off as he saw Sherlock's expectant expression.

"No, it can wait till tomorrow,"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smirked.

John sighed. "Do I need to bring the laptop again?"

"No. I have an audio recorder."

John chuckled. "You brought an audio recorder?"

"I stole it from Greene."

"Why?"

"He annoys me."

"...Where is it?"

"On the table, by my suitcase," he pointed to its general location.

"Okay, well," John said as he grabbed his coat and put the recorder in his pocket, "don't talk too much, and take another pill in six hours...if I'm not back by then, which I probably will-"

"Just go. I'll be fine."

John sighed as he left the room. It wasn't until he was in the lift that he realized that he didn't know where the hospital was.

 

* * *

_"Tim! Hey, how's it going?"_

"Hey Scott."

_"Did you have a good Thanksgiving?"_

"Uh, well, yeah...sorta…"

_"We're just wrapping up over here. We'll be back in a day or two."_

"Great...great…"

_"You okay? You don't sound so good."_

"Heh...You'll never believe where I just came from."

_"Yeah?"_

"The police department. They interrogated me and everything."

_"Woah! They finally caught ya, did they?"_

"No, no. It wasn't-"

_"I told you before we left...you should have stopped after three-"_

"Scott! I got out, okay? It wasn't an arrest. It was just a questioning."

_"Oh...well that's good."_

"You know, never mind. Just come back and see how horrible it is over here."

_"Wh-What do you mean?"_

"It's all over the news. Haven't you seen it?"

_"N-No. Is it bad?"_

"All hell has broken loose."

_"What happened?"_

"..."

"I don't think this is something to discuss over the phone. I'll tell you when you get back."

_"WHAT?! No, man. Now you_ have _to tell me! C'mon! Don't leave me hang-"_

Caraway hung up the phone before his friend could finish his sentence.

 


End file.
